


Disciple

by PepperPrints



Category: Marvel 616
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-22
Updated: 2012-02-22
Packaged: 2017-10-31 14:17:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/344953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PepperPrints/pseuds/PepperPrints
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coulmier stared at his reflection in the mirror, eyes narrow and intense, and he convinced himself of this. He would not fail this task. He would not fail Norman Osborn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Disciple

**Author's Note:**

> An old kink meme prompt that I'm still fond of. No real warnings apply... well, except for masturbation along with some mild blasphemy.

Norman Osborn was everything.

This was an unwavering fact in Coulmier's mind, an unquestioned truth that was as pure and powerful as his faith. It was a certain sort of blasphemy, that was for certain, to take the man with such worship, but Coulmier believed this could be just one exception, just one allowance, for it was undeniable that the man had earned it. Osborn was no false idol. No. He was a prophet. Coulmier stared at his reflection in the mirror, eyes narrow and intense, and he convinced himself of this. He would not fail this task. He would not fail Norman Osborn.

Tomorrow everything would change. He would stand before Norman Osborn, in the cell that Coulmier himself had arranged for him, and he would behold his idol. At last, face to face, granted the chance to stare into vibrantly sharp green eyes that managed to captivate him even through the dull resolution of the computer's photographs. Coulmier did indeed keep many images such as that, logs and files and secrecy hidden under protective code and key, studied as diligently as the leather bound book he kept so often in his hand. Today, he told men about his faith in God. Soon, so very soon, he would also preach his faith in Norman Osborn.

The very thought stirred him, down to his very core, and his body began to react to it. Such things were not uncommon after having denied a life of such indulgences, and he had trained himself to ignore these reactions until they calmed away, this however was very different. The need was strong, stronger than ever before, and Coulmier wasn't certain that if he did not relieve it now, if he would be able to restrain himself when he truly saw Osborn, separated only by a set of bars or protective glass. Coulmier could not risk such a thing. He needed to be composed, and in control, for he refused to have Osborn to believe him weak.

He had already stripped down to his undershirt, the material soft but flimsy, and he slowly ran his hand along it. His hand pressed flat to his chest, starting just beneath the collarbone and sliding downward. He stopped at his stomach, his breath shortening, and he slid his hand up again, his palm brushing over hardening nipples. Gazing into the mirror, watching himself, he began to imagine: if his hand were a little broader, a little more masculine, stronger instead of slender, it might have been Osborn's touch. It was easy to convince himself of this, easy to indulge the lie. It would not be sin, if Osborn ever asked this of him. It would be his duty, his responsibility to him, and a proof of his faith that he could not fail to provide. 

How desperately Coulmier wanted Osborn to ask this very thing of him, on the other hand, was likely very sinful.

Coulmier's slender fingers curled around the cross that dangled from his neck, gently pulling it off to set it aside. This was about Osborn and only Osborn. He stripped until he was bare save for the mark that would never leave his skin, the ink decorating the back of his neck, his sign of unwavering loyalty. There were foolish children who tried to wear this same mark without understanding what it meant. Truly, it was no different than a certain kind of people who wore the cross so wrongly. They didn't understand, not like he did, nor did they crave like he did.

The many books littered on his bed were carefully set aside as he settled himself on the mattress. On his front, Coulmier decided, it would have to be that way, or else the mark would be hidden and that wouldn't do. Osborn needed to be able see it, to be able to touch it with his fingers, or taste it with his tongue.

Coulmier was breathing shortly now as his mind raced ahead of him. He needed to show Osborn the mark when he met him. To reveal it, inevitably, he would have to strip and he would have to turn away from him. The gesture might seem disrespectful, he realized, to turn away as if too fearful to face him, to look him in those dark eyes, which could not be further from the truth. He would have to make himself known: bow his head, kneel before him, be reverent and subservient, unable to see Osborn's reaction and left only to wait for his inevitable reply, his approval or his scorn.

Coulmier let his eyes drift shut at the thought, his cheek pressed against his pillow as his hand returned to its gentle wandering. He was hard, and had been for quite some time now. He wasn't childishly embarrassed by the thought. No, this was natural, the most rational and sane progression considering just who was in his mind. Norman Osborn was a man impossible not to watch, not to want. His voice sounded so smooth, like water running down his back, his eyes intense and determined, hands weathered to reveal his age but when they moved they were no less fluid, expressive and powerful in every gesture. It was those hands, instead of his own, that Coulmier imagined had taken hold of his erection and stroked. That voice, he imagined hushing the needful cry which spilled from his lips. The eyes, he imagined watching him while he writhed on the mattress, thrusting his hips and pleading quietly beneath the fragile cries.

"My Lord," he whispered to the man, to the vivid image in his head, the words becoming a soft, breathless little mantra as his eyes squeezed tightly shut. "My Lord, my _God_..."

Coulmier pressed his face into his pillow, soft feathers muffling his cry as he came over his hand and over the sheets beneath him. His body went limp, shivering and slick with sweat as he struggled to catch his breath. Perhaps it was how long he had denied himself, how long he had been saving himself, to blame for why he climaxed so quickly. Coulmier was more inclined to thank the thoughts spinning in his mind. The mere thought of the man alone had so much power over him, Coulmier was not certain what he would do when he at last faced him.

Bow his head, kneel before him, be reverent and subservient, unable to see Osborn's reaction and left only to wait for his inevitable reply, his approval or his scorn.


End file.
